High Dudgeon
by Revriley
Summary: That's why I've hurt so many people until now... And someday, I'm going to be hurt and break too. I'm okay with that. - Tick, 1933 The Slash - Cloudy to Rainy. Tick's bonds to the Gandor Family are tested in a dead-end alleyway, by four revenge-fueled men. What is broken, and what is fixable, remain to be seen. Two chapter fic.
1. Invective

They cornered Tick four blocks and an alleyway away from Mulberry Street.

All four men were taller than Tick by a good several inches. All four wore brass knuckles on their left hands, and identical hate in their expressions.

Tick pressed himself against the back wall, and bowed his head.

"See those scissors?" breathed the blond man on the far right. "He's the one, Clay. Gotta be."

The leader, Clay, stepped forward and scrutinized Tick's face with dark, hungry eyes. "What a freak," he muttered. "Hey, freak, you know why we're here?"

"Ummm." Tick considered the four men's rough appearances, their plainwear, the mud upon their boots. The brass knuckles. "Is it…something I did?"

The brunet on the far left jerked forward in anger, but Clay stuck out his hand to stop him. "Easy, Marv," he said, his dark gaze fixated on Tick all the while. "You're goddamn right it's something you did. You sliced up cousin Paulie last week with those scissors of yours, and all 'cause he was running a few craps games on Gandor turf. Ring any bells?"

Tick furrowed his brow, concentrating hard. He recalled Paul after a moment or two, a twenty something brunet into whose palms Tick had cut thin whorls for three minutes straight. "Oh…" he said, bowing his head even further. "You're…here for revenge? I'm sorrrrry."

"You fucking bet we're here for revenge!" shouted the man between Marv and Clay. "And who the fuck do you think you are, saying 'sorry'?"

Tick nodded in agreement. "I understand," he replied, his voice full of childish sorrow. "I hurt him. So you're here to hurt me. That's okay. I guess I deserve it."

Something ugly flashed across Marv's face, and he charged at Tick with an animalistic howl. Clay did not try to hold him back this time, and instead looked to the man on his left and the man on his right. "Barry, Duncan, go." To Tick, he said. "Revenge, yeah. That, and you're gonna tell me which Gandor ordered him tortured."

Tick offered no resistance when Marv plowed his right fist into his cheek, and remained pliant when Barry's and Duncan's fists followed at his chest. His breath was stolen from him in an instant, and he hovered his hands at his sides, near his scissors – but he made no move to grab them and defend himself.

Another few punches to Tick's ribs and sides sent him to his knees, and Marv drove the hard tip of his boot into Tick's shins, over and over. Tick's whole body juddered involuntarily, but he never once acted to defend himself. He did not act at all.

Tick retreated into himself, and felt relief.

"I…re-really respect you," he coughed, in between Barry's kicks to his side. "Y-you sought me ouuut because you…love your cousin, right? That your bond is so strong…I really aaaadmire—"

Duncan pressed the sole of his shoe down on the soft exposed flesh of Tick's right forearm, silencing him. Tick squinted past him at Clay, who had approached to stand just inches away from the mayhem. "Thank you," Tick wheezed, "For this."

Clay recoiled, his face contorted with disgust. "And why's that?"

"Be-because." Tick's cheek scraped against rough rock as he spat out blood from his split bottom lip. "Becauuuse. I want to know. If my – if my bonds to the Gandors are strong enough. I waaant to…" his cough this time was worryingly harsh "…believe they won't break, even if _I_ break."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Barry and Duncan shared mutually nonplussed glances at one another, while Marv vibrated in a palpable effort to keep himself from letting loose another kick.

"Huh," said Clay, flatly. "Then you won't mind if we _break_ you, right?"

He brought his boot down on Tick's right hand. Tick's phalanges cracked under the pressure, and his world went white.

Beneath the thick haze of agony lay a thin, detached sense of dismay, and Tick found himself taking refuge there. _Ah…_ Tick may not have been all that smart, but he knew, at least, that his hands were his greatest assets. They were what made him valuable to the Gandor Family. The _only_ thing that gave him value.

Clay stared down at him, humorless, and ground the heel of his boot down onto Tick's other hand.

Tick's ring finger snapped against his chest and he bit down on his ravaged bottom lip, splitting it further. He did not recognize the noise keening between his teeth. He did not recognize that Clay was speaking until a hand pulled at his hair and forced his head upward.

"Much as you're the star here… I'm still waiting on that name," said Clay, into Tick's ear. "Who handed Paul over to you? Who had him brought in?"

The names sprang to the tip of Tick's tongue – names, plural. It had been Luck who'd brought the multiple craps games to the Gandors' attention and who'd ordered Paul tortured, but it had been Berga and Nicola who'd broken up the largest craps game last Friday.

"Well?" Clay's whisky breath washed hot over his skin. "You know, if you don't talk we just may have to go after _all_ the Gandor capos. Sure, it would be difficult, but…" He trailed off meaningfully, keeping his fingers woven into Tick's hair.

Tick hands burned with needling fire, and he noted distantly that he had begun shivering uncontrollably. He went limp, and focused on breathing one shuddery breath after another.

His hair was released. "Fine," grunted Clay. "You asked for it."

Something tugged at Tick's belt – no, the scissors on his belt. _That_ caught his fading attention. "Not – my scissors," he pleaded. "They shouldn't be uuused…for hatred or revenge."

"Is that right." A faint note of amusement crept into Clay's voice. It morphed into hard loathing. "Sorry to disappoint."

Another sharp tug at Tick's belt resulted in the leather ripping. Tick reached out automatically to try and take his scissors back, but his arm dropped instantly at the lancing pain in his fingers. He curled in on himself, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited.

There was an art to using scissors, and Clay did not know it. He wielded them without respect, crudely and brutally driving the scissors like a stake into Tick's upper arm and right thigh. Crude, but nonetheless effective. And when he slid the tip of one blade into the cuticles of Tick's already maimed right hand, Tick found himself on the verge of crumbling.

It would only be too easy to give the man what he wanted; the syllables simmered on his lips, one mere breath away from betrayal. As temptation clawed at him, he could _feel_ those intangible bonds that connected him and the Gandors, could envision them coiling around his limbs and his heart. The strain upon them was enormous.

He wondered, with a far-off spasm of alarm, if they were reaching a breaking point.

"What about now?" asked Clay, tracing Tick's jawline with the tips of the scissors. "You feeling like talking now?"

Tick's entire soul urged him to talk, but he shook his head with all the strength he had. Pressed his lips together, _tight_ , and as his blood dribbled down his chin in warm rivulets thought only of the Family. Of Keith, austere and protective and so powerful in his silence, the very man who'd allowed him into the Family back in 1925; of Berga, big and bombastic and conservatively appreciative of Tick's work – even if it remained so very different from Berga's preferred methods of inflicting pain; of Nicola, unflinching and sturdy and always willing to lend a willing ear and warm laugh Tick's way.

And of Edith, strong and kind and one of the few people to call him _friend_ , just like Claire – no, not Claire; _Felix_ , who never failed to claim any empty seat next to Tick and greet him with a sun-bright smile and ask about his scissors with unflagging interest, month after month—

And of Maria – if Felix was the dawn then Maria was the eventide, dusky and intense and so, so warmly confident and confidently warm and – what was that Luck had called her? a _confidant_ , and then there was—

—Luck, the youngest Gandor, the one who had looked at young, willowy Tick and given him a _chance_. Luck, impossibly sharp where Tick was dumb, eloquent and witty where Tick was dull. Luck, whom Tick had already disappointed once with the whole Mist Wall fiasco. Luck, and the rest. They who had given Tick a place to _stay_.

Clay sighed, and brought the scissors down onto Tick's exposed collarbone in a long, sluicing gash of a cut. From then on, Tick did not speak. Tick did not move. He lay there, limp as a rag doll, and felt the stress against his bonds to the Gandors increase, and increase, and increase—

"Hey!" A man's voice boomed in the distance. "What do you think you're – oh, _hell_."

Tick dimly recognized the voice as belonging to Nicola, and a warped amalgamation of relief and upset churned in his stomach. _No…wait…_ Footsteps pounded in his direction, and he dimly recognized Nicola's strong, sturdy frame slamming into Clay with a brawler's tackle. The two men tumbled out of his sight in a tornado of limbs and adrenaline.

"Luck!" Nicola roared. " _Luck_!"

A muffled gunshot went off moments later somewhere on Tick's right, and he impotently twitched away from it. Something sharp dug at the skin of his uninjured thigh, and he realized it was one of his own pairs of scissors, still attached to his belt. The pressure vanished when a pair of hands grabbed Tick by his shirt and hauled him upward. His head lolled, but he managed to peer upward at his kneeling handler through blood-encrusted eyelashes.

"God damn you," moaned Marv, his eyes wet and accusing. "You evil son of a bitch, cutting up people for a living – cutting up _Paulie_ , God _damn_ you!"

His eyes grew impossibly round, and he choked soundlessly before slumping forward. Tick had little choice but to slump with him, and as he fell back against the wall he saw a knife protruding from Marv's back – not his spine, but somewhere around his scapula – and Luck looming over them both with molten fury oozing off him in waves. Luck drove a vicious kick into Marv's side, sending the man rolling off Tick's body and onto the floor, and immediately rammed his elbow into the abdomen of the man who'd been creeping up behind him – Barry. Without pausing for breath, he drew his revolver and shot Duncan's thigh before Duncan could so much as shout and shot a third bullet into Barry's ankle before hurrying forward to crouch by Tick's side.

"Tick." Luck said his name with quiet firmness, but no matter how coolly he spoke he couldn't mask the atavistic rage contorting the lines around his mouth and eyes, the tautness of sinew and muscle underneath his skin. And Tick did not miss the way Luck's gaze immediately fixated upon his maimed hands. "Report."

Tick sucked in a raspy breath and flecks of his own blood as he made to reply, but a long, arching caterwaul from Clay distracted him. He glanced out of the right corners of his eyes to no avail in an attempt to see the goings on.

"No, look at me. At _me_ , Tick. That's an order."

With effort, he complied. "My-my hands," he tried, blood burbling at his bottom lip with every consonant. "Th-they…" It was obvious what had been done to his hands. "Ribs," he tried again, "Sides. Shins." He imagined that the holes in his arm and thigh were obvious too. He did not want to imagine the state of his face.

Nicola sidled into view, dark blood dripping from a gunshot to his upper right arm. What pain he must have been feeling remained hidden behind a mask of stoicism and anger at Tick's plight. "Damn it all," he muttered, sweeping his gaze over Tick's shivering body. "We've got an auto parked one block away. You want me to…?"

Luck did not look at him. "Go."

The capo did not have to be told twice. He vanished around the corner of the alleyway, feet heavy against the ground in thunderous haste. Once Nicola had vanished, Luck focused his attention solely on Tick, his eyes glittering. "You have my apologies," he said, hoarsely, "As a member of my Family, you are under my care. And that care has betrayed you."

"I don't…understaannnd…" And Tick did _not_ understand, not in the slightest. He had been walking alone of his own accord, and was caught alone. He made to tell Luck this, but his bruised ribs protested the motion. All that he produced, in the end, was a single, miserable cough. Luck's drawn expression shuttered even further at the sound. "But – but _I'm_ sorry toooo."

 _That_ caused concern to flash across Luck's face, but before he could pursue the matter there was a skid of rubber against road and rubber against stone and Nicola appeared at Luck's side once more, panting as if he had run a marathon. "Here, I'm," he gulped air, and Tick was lucid enough to notice that the dark wet patch of cloth over Nicola's arm had grown considerably in size. " _Here_ , let's get him into the car, hurry—"

"Wait." Luck cast his gaze about the alley in tense thought, and Tick followed suit. He tried to, at least, turning his aching neck to the right to see Clay's crumpled form in the corner, to the left to see Barry clutching his ankle in agony. Luck nodded over to where Marv lay breathing shallow breaths near Duncan. "Take his coat. We can't let anyone see."

 _See what?_ Tick wondered, the question flitting hazily in and out of his rapidly fleeting consciousness. The answer, as it turned out, was _him_ , and Nicola and Luck carefully helped Tick to his feet before draping Marv's coat over Tick's head and torso with apologetic care. Each man put a bracing arm on Tick's back, and helped him hobble over to the auto with laboriously slow steps. As soon as they deposited Tick in the passenger seat they were off again to fetch the four men, whom they shoved into the trunk and back seats with far less concern for their wellbeing.

Nicola made for the driver's seat, but stopped in his tracks at a word from Luck. "Not with that arm. Sit in the back." To Tick, Luck added, "We're taking you to Fred's first, and then the men to Coraggioso. Do _not_ fall asleep until we get there. That's an order, understand? Tick?"

But Tick had lost himself in the nettling agony shooting through every nerve and cell in his hands, agony that drowned out the sting of his cheek and lip, the throbbing of his arm and thigh, the ache of his ribs and sides and shins, all of it. He had repaid Father's debt collateral in spades, but if his hands could not heal – _if they could not heal_ – then what then?

 _What then?_

He did not dare open his eyes if it meant finding out the answer.

* * *

 **So in** ** _The Slash, Cloudy to Rainy,_** **Tick "can't help but think" that his bonds to the Gandors might break before** ** _he_** **does should they ever be tested, and naturally I desperately need Narita to explore such a scenario as soon as possible. My dream would be for his bonds to be tested in 1935-E at Ra's Lance, because Dallas will be there and having the two of them in the same vicinity is an opportunity that Narita** ** _cannot_** **waste (PLEASE).**

 **You may ask why I ventured to write something like this when 1935-E isn't even out yet, and my answer to that is "a severe lack of self-control." That being said, I am not wholly confident in my ability to write this. I did not write out my dream of Dallas spotting and going after Tick in Ra's Lance, because I severely doubt that I would be able to do it justice. Writing about four OCs going after Tick is, while still risky, less so. That being said, I cannot guarantee that I won't write** ** _something_** **on it once 1935-E is out.**

 **Do I have chapter two planned? Not exactly, truth be told, though I have ideas. I just...wanted to get this out before my brain imploded.**


	2. Laudation

**Note: Nicola's wound has been changed from his shoulder to upper arm.**

* * *

The people at the clinic were very nice, and Tick's bed was very warm. They'd given him and Nicola their own little private room in the back, and it was never lonely thanks to Nicola keeping up a constant stream of chatter his way. The nurse called Who checked on them frequently, and Doctor Fred himself had helped Tick eat the first two days of his stay. He would sit on Tick's bed, check his hands – always bandaged and kept tightly strapped to Tick's chest – check his thigh, his arm, collarbone, ribs, and feed him warm soup and pre-cut food without ever spilling a drop.

"There is no reason to feel ashamed," Fred had assured him the first mealtime, voice quiet and calm. "In the war, I treated many soldiers in many beds. Rows upon rows of young men, stricken by disease and bullet and no longer able to feed or dress or relieve themselves without assistance. They were no less men for it. It is the same with you."

Tick had only nodded, obediently opening and closing his mouth as needed and thanking him as needed. That alone had cost him effort. Every breath had cost him effort. Yet, when Fred had stood up to leave, his mouth opened once more of its own accord.

"Ummm, my hands—" He hesitated when Fred turned to look at him, the weight of Nicola's stare an added pressure. "They..."

Fred had regarded him silently for a long moment, and then retook his seat on the mattress. Shifting so that he was facing away from Nicola's bed, he tugged the glove off his right hand and then the other, revealing grey bandages covering the skin of both palms and wrists.

Tick did not look. He _could_ have looked – could have peeked at the exposed fingers, could have gawped openly or remained tactfully respectful – but instead, his gaze fell to his lap and remained put. In his peripheral vision he registered that Fred's hands were moving, unwrapping the bandages with methodical care, and that was enough. Even with his mind fogged with exhaustion and pain, blurring the world in the chemical smells of blood and vapor and lamplight – even with his slow, clumsy mind – he'd had a moment of recognition.

Not in a thought, nothing so concrete as all that. A memory. A feeling of a memory, or a memory of a feeling. The solemnity that had enveloped him at the sight of Fred's bandages was the same solemnity he'd felt when Maria had curled up small and openly vulnerable and openly terrified. Close enough, at least, that he only raised his head when the movement in his periphery had ceased.

Fred presented his uncovered hands without comment, twin topographical maps of grotesque design. Here was humanity's Great War, charted around fingers and callused palms and down and beyond wrinkled wrists. Here were scars carving out rivers and mountain ridges through lacustrine burns, pigment changes plotting continents that disappeared up into the shadows of coat sleeves.

 _Now_ Tick stared. He couldn't help it – not when the hardship displayed was so familiar and strange all at once. As someone who inflicted pain for a living, the familiarity lay in the details; he could guess which wounds had caused Fred the most pain, for instance, or what inflicted them. Beyond that, Fred's scars did not resemble his handiwork in the slightest. The pain he inflicted was a calculated pain, each cut from his scissors made with a purpose. There was no pattern to Fred's injuries, no rhyme or reason. There was no _reason_ –!

"Verdun weighs so heavily on my hands," Fred murmured, and Tick had to muster all his energy just to focus on the words, "That it is a wonder I can still wield a scalpel. Whether you believe it a miracle or a punishment – it is what it is."

Though faint, the note of reassurance in his voice was unmistakable. Tick latched on to it without even realizing, watched as Fred's gaze dragged upward, upward– "Despite everything, my hands are steady," – _upward_ , and no matter how hard Tick searched he could not find hope in those deadened eyes. "Despite everything, my hands have healed."

After a long pause, he gave a slow shake of his head and took to rewrapping the bandages around his left hand. "If these hands can still wield a scalpel, than yours can surely wield your scissors again. I would not say so carelessly, you understand. Please, do not cause yourself unnecessary stress."

And Tick had had no choice but to try and believe him. He tried all through Who's subsequent visit (where he'd remarked, "Huh, Doctor Fred normally leaves as soon as he finishes treatment… Never seen him stay with a patient for so long"), and would have continued to actively try all throughout the night had Nicola not launched into a retelling of every single fight he'd had with some fellow named Graham.

Tick could be firm when needed, but there was something so relentless about Nicola's charisma that one way or another he began the third day far more relaxed than he had the first. Well, as relaxed as one could be when their body was still recovering from physical assault.

Nicolas, meanwhile, greeted the morning with shadowed eyes and a bout of grumbling that seemed a touch more heartfelt than usual:

"Damn… Feels like I'm starting to forget what the sun looks like."

He grunted as he carefully massaged his neck muscles, trying to avoid disturbing his injured arm as much as possible. Though his brow was smooth, the corner of his lips was unmistakably curled into a hint of a scowl. Then, it twitched into something more mean-spirited than vague dissatisfaction. "I bet that bastard Lester's forgotten by now. Ha… On second thought, knowing that we're getting out of here while he isn't makes the wait a whole lot sweeter."

The grin he flashed Tick had a nasty sort of cheerfulness to it, an emotion that Tick couldn't match in solidarity but at least understood. "And – _ngh_ – I can't remember the last time I spent so much time in bed, so there's that too. You think the bosses are going to count this hospital stint as a vacation period?"

"I…" Tick had the desperate urge to fidget with something, anything. The scissors he could not feel, the bandages swathing his skin. But focusing on the urge meant focusing on his dormant fingers, and his smile felt as frayed as the blanket he could not hold. "Geeeee…I don't really know, Mr. Nicola."

Nicola made an aborted attempt to jerk upright, only to hiss and sink back into his pillows. "I swear, you're as bad as Luck–"

Three knocks sounded off at the door, cutting Nicola off. "What, that time already…?" He shot a slightly less frustrated look Tick's way and swung himself out of bed, ambling over so that he could draw the bedcurtain shut by Tick's right bedside. Just like that, Nicola's bed and the door beyond were fully obscured. Two further pairs of knocks rung out in tandem with the groaning of the metal springs in Nicola's bedframe, and Tick relaxed at the familiar signal. "All right," Nicola called. "You can come in."

A miserable rusty squawk scraped the air as if in answer, followed by multiple pairs of footsteps and oh, that wasn't right at all. Who was supposed to be working the morning rounds alone – why the change? What if the newcomers were hostile? And why was Nicola laughing?

…Why _was_ Nicola laughing?

A large hand reached around the white bedcurtain and yanked it back, revealing a decidedly intact Who. He was as tall and hulking as always, which Tick took as a promising sign that his feet hadn't been hacked off by a rogue torture specialist or the like. That Who's head remained attached to his neck was especially encouraging, but it wasn't as if that would explain the extra footsteps…

…But the eyes peeking out behind Who's arm would. So would the long brown hair hanging below, swishing out of sight behind Who's back. A moment later, Edith popped out from Who's shadow and into view, dragging a somewhat unhealthy looking man along with her. He wasn't a total stranger – Tick had seem him visiting the Coraggioso once or twice, even talking privately with Luck on one occasion.

"Good morning!" Edith exclaimed, wobbling a little as she set down a shopping bag on the floor. The man set down two more. "Did we surprise you?"

"You sure diiid." Tick put his hand on his chest – he made to put his hand on his chest – he would have, if only – he would, but first he had to make sure that his smile was still a smile. "I didn't think we'd get aannny visitors."

Worry lines crumpled what had been a perfectly happy expression on Edith's perfectly nice face, which she now turned toward Nicola in a quick, pleading sweep of her head. Who had already shuffled over to check the charts he'd hung over Tick's bed, meaning that Tick finally had a clear view of the rest of the room again – and that included Nicola, shaking his head at Edith's distress.

"No, you've got it wrong," he said. Tick shifted under his sheets, his bandaged thigh itching up a storm. Had he? That made sense. He got things wrong all the time. "He means he thought the bosses wanted this as under wraps as possible, which means _no visitors_. The last thing we need is for people to start wondering why a bunch of healthy Gandor guys are visiting the clinic out of the blue."

Oh. That was… Well, it was – it was true, sort of. It wasn't as if Tick hadn't _noticed_ there was something cagey going on. Luck and Nicola had put a jacket over his face because they didn't want anyone seeing him, but that was out in public. Even in the privacy of their quarantined room, either Who or Nicola always made sure to shut Tick's bedcurtain every night but not Nicola's; that Nicola had the bed closest to the door was no accident either.

"And he's right, by the way," continued Nicola. "You're not supposed to be here. Luck said he was going to say as much to the others, so… Come on, let's hear your excuse."

The smile Edith offered the two of them had a hint of guilt to it, if one looked past all the self-satisfaction. "We-ell, Roy used to be in and out of this place all the time, and I visited him when I could. He still stops by now and then, since he works at one of Doctor Fred's other facilities, so…out of the entire Family, I think we're the least suspicious people to sneak a visit, don't you agree? If anyone asks, we can pass it off as work-related, or another 'sick day', or–"

"No," said her companion, his voice quiet – but firm. "Not another sick day."

Edith looked back at him, and her gaze softened. "…Right," she agreed, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. "No more sick days."

Roy's lips twitched upward into something that was not quite a smile – something too melancholic for that – but his eyes crinkled anyway. It was two or three seconds of silence until Edith turned to Tick once more, hand leaving Roy's in hasty realization. "Oh, I almost forgot!" She bent down to retrieve two of the bags, and hoisted them upward. "Breakfast!"

Nicola stirred, the hope flickering across his face so abnormally childlike that Tick thought he must have been seeing things. "Food?" he asked, licking his lips in wolf-like fashion, hardly paying attention to Who's medical administrations. " _Real_ food?"

That wasn't fair of him, Tick was sure it wasn't fair. In fact, it had been Nicola himself who said the clinic's food was better than the typical hospital fare he'd had in the past. But then, he'd also remarked that too much of the same thing is awfully boring, not that Tick could relate.

"Let's just say you're in for a treat," Edith said, and Tick wasn't sure when she'd gotten a pleased glint in her eyes but gee if she didn't look like the cat that got the cream. "A dear friend of mine is a _wonderful_ cook, and when she heard that _relatives_ of mine were sick – she went to the trouble of whipping up a meal for you two bright and early this morning. We left the facility around five so that we could make it to the Alveare in time…" She waved a dismissive hand, and raised her voice. "Anyway, is there a kitchenette we can use?"

She'd raised her voice Who's way, so it was Who who answered. "Er, staff's got a break room with some counters you could use. I'll have to supervise, since we can't risk a mess."

"That's fine," Roy assured him, as he claimed the bags from Edith. "Leave the prepwork to me. Edith's not the only one who's got a cook for a friend, I'll have you know."

As soon as Roy and Who left the room, Edith perched herself on the edge of Tick's bed and withdrew a rolled-up magazine from her coat pocket with a happy sigh. "Oh, I can't _wait_ for you to taste Lia's cooking! We wrapped up everything in blankets, so all of it should still be warm." With a flourish, she opened the magazine and smoothed it flat, turning it so that its contents faced Tick.

"Hm? What iiis it?" Tick asked, not that the photographs of pretty women, beauty tip columns, and advertisements for Westmore and Coty beauty products left much doubt as to what the magazine was. Edith turned the pages for him, revealing more of the same. "I didn't know you liiiked this sort of thing."

"I don't," Edith assured him, a few long locks of hair shifting as she shrugged. "I can't remember the last time I bought one of these. When I saw it in the shop, though, the portraits gave me a few new ideas for haircuts when your hands recover – there!" She pointed to a photograph of a woman with medium-length wavy hair. "Everyone seems to be cutting their hair short these days, but I just can't see myself in a bob…though I'm willing to experiment. What do you think? Could you do it?"

Tick sucked in a quiet breath, much to his ribs' dismay, but there was little more that he _could_ do except – breathe. He could not shrug as she did, not with his arm and his hands. "Weelll, I don't really know if I can or caaan't… I can't look at something and work out the steps like my brother, I just doooo. So I wouldn't know unless I tried."

Edith hesitated, and then nodded firmly. "Then we'll just have to try, won't we! It'll grow itself out regardless of how it turns out, so I promise I won't be mad either way. Deal?"

She tossed her hair back, and under the warm lamplight it shimmered invitingly, like she was some sort of dolled up starlet at a theater premiere. Tick stared at it, and the dead weights strapped to his chest grew all the heavier.

There was an art to using scissors, and Tick had once known it. He had once possessed grace and fluidity, weaving silver arcs across the air like a spider its web. He had more than once cut Edith's hair, but with hands that had been slender and deft.

There was an art to using scissors, and it had once had come to Tick as naturally as breathing. It had been so innate that he had never needed to _put faith_ in it in the first place.

Now…

"You'd…" The words were stuck in his throat. "…You'd really…believe in these hands?"

Like sunlight into mist, Edith's smile faded. With subdued care, she set the magazine to the side and scooted up the mattress, upper torso twisting so that she could better face him, and brought up her hands so that they could hover a hair's breadth above his own.

"I would," she replied, eyes half-lidded. They were close enough now that he could smell her vanilla perfume – and the faintest whiff of honey. "I _do_. They'll recover, there's no doubt about it."

Her delivery was earnest in the Maria mode, though not as reckless, but Tick could not find it within him to carelessly agree as he once had with Maria. He could not find it within him to admit his doubts, either. What he could believe in was the present state of his hands; he had felt every hurt inflicted on them, minor and major. Oh yes, he had seen Fred's expertise with his own eyes, but to believe in an unrealized, intangible future…

"...Thaaank you, Edith," he said, finally. He did not look over at Nicola's bed. "I'm sure it'll be juuuust fine."

Relieved, Edith withdrew and retrieved the magazine from where it lay. The two of them poured over photographs and beauty tips until Roy and Who returned in a haze of tantalizing aromas, each carrying a large, food-laden tray.

"Hold on!" Edith hopped to her feet to drag a parlor-style table over to the space between Tick and Nicola's bed, its surface just barely able to house both trays. Nicola abandoned his bed to loom over the table as a vulture would its prey, and even Tick couldn't help but crane (within reason) to get a good look.

On one tray sat a huge serving bowl of white rice, made colorful by scrambled eggs, sweetcorn, diced carrots, and green onions mixed therein. Beside the bowl lay a plate of pre-cut salmon, its soft pink flesh adding to the varicolored display, and it took Tick a solid second to realize he was salivating. He might have clapped a hand to his mouth had he had the wherewithal, such was his surprise – unlike Nicola, he hadn't had much of an appetite up until now.

The other tray boasted a plate of peeled apple slices, grapes, and two types of cheese in the way of food, alongside a jar of Alveare honey and salt-and-pepper shakers. A small stack of bowls, a pile of cutlery, and a few pairs of chopsticks occupied the rest of the tray's space. Tick couldn't help but glance over at the door in vague anticipation, but returned his attention to the trays when the door remained shut.

"This is…" Nicola cleared his throat, eyes glazing over. Wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, when the words wouldn't come. A rumbling growl filled the silence in his stead. "I'll – I'll let my stomach do the talking. Excuse me."

Edith surveyed the bounty with more composure, her expression gentle with fondness. "That Lia… This is way more than two servings. She didn't have to go to this much trouble…!"

She switched places with Who so that she could take over food distribution, rearranging kitchenware and doling out food with a waitress' ease – and a waitress' chatter. "Lia said she made sure to avoid her usual spices, since mild food will be easier on your stomachs, but don't you go thinking it'll be bland. Oh, and she bought the salmon fresh this morning, can you believe it, how on earth she found a fishmonger that early I don't know..."

There was so much rice that Edith was able to fill five bowls and have some leftover, though she was able to use all the salmon strips by distributing three per bowl. The fruit, cheese, and honey were left on the tray to be used as requested, only for Roy to take one look at them and smack his forehead. "Ach, we nearly forgot the sourdough."

He ducked under Edith's arm as she handed Nicola his helping to fetch the forgotten third bag by the foot of Tick's bed. "It's a little old, but it's still good to eat," he rambled, withdrawing a paper-wrapped loaf from the bag to set upon the table, "And it's warm, too–"

Roy stared into the bag's interior for a long moment, and then let out a dry chuckle. "Would you look at that…" With a smile and shake of his head, he pulled out a tall jar of applesauce and held it to the ceiling light. "That friend of mine… Somehow he slipped us this without me knowing. It's homemade and everything." He set the jar down next to the loaf, and then clapped his hands together. "I don't care if you end up having to save it for lunch or dinner – one way or another, you _have_ to try some."

Nicola retreated to his bed to eat, while Who claimed one of two chairs against the opposite wall and Roy elected to stand. Out of the three, Roy was the only one to use chopsticks instead of a fork– though Tick thought that Nicola just might've settled for using his _hand_ if he had to, given how fast he was inhaling the meal.

There were two full bowls left on the tray, and Edith took one and a spoon before resettling herself on Tick's bed. "I know you can't use your hands right now," she said, "So for this much, at least… I can be your hands. If you want."

Though Edith technically blocked Tick's view of Who and the door, Who was so tall – even when sitting – that he could see Who's head perk up from where it peeked over Edith's shoulder. That was no surprise; Who was supposed to take over meal duties, now that Fred was away. Edith was neither Who nor Fred, though – she was a personal _friend_. Was that so different? Given how carefully she'd phrased the offer, maybe she was expecting Tick to be embarrassed and ashamed like Fred had.

"Really, I'm happy to," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, "I used to for Roy, sometimes, when he was very ill, and–"

"That's aaawfully nice of you," Tick interjected, for it _was_ awfully nice and there was no need for her to justify herself. "It's okay. I can believe in _yooouur_ hands." Just as he had seen her deftly handle breakfast, he had seen her handle evening rush after evening rush back at Coraggioso. Yes, he could believe in that much, at least.

From the way Edith glowed with happiness, he was all the more sure he'd said the right thing.

* * *

It was one hour to lunchtime when a tile abruptly disappeared from the ceiling.

Two seconds later, the ceiling sneezed dust.

"You'd think a hospital-type setting would clean out the walls a little more often," said the ceiling, and Claire Stanfield popped out of the square hole so that he could sneeze again in upside-down fashion. He dropped down with a case in hand, flipping like a cat mid-air to land on his feet. "What with all the bugs."

"Vino-!"

"Claire…"

Tick and Nicola blurted out the names as one, and shared a glance. Nicola, already on his feet at the intrusion, scrubbed his free hand over his face and sank onto his mattress. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Man, you wouldn't believe what a time I've had," Claire prattled on, drawing up two chairs by Tick's bedside to sit in the rightmost one. "Keith and the others are having me stand-in as their torturer while you're outta commission, and living up to your legacy is a lotta responsibility, y'know? I may be the Rail Tracer, but it's _your_ name they know around these parts, not mine. Well, some know the name _Vino_ , yeah, but more in an assassiny sense and I don't even tell them my name half the time. It's a real pickle."

His breath hitched, and he scrunched up his nose – but the third sneeze never came. "Also, isn't that kinda obvious?" he called to Nicola, over his shoulder. "Visiting Tick and you, of course. What, you gotta problem with a guy wanting to visit his invalid friends?"

"Oh, _of course_ ," mocked Nicola, his tone forbidding. "You know what I mean."

Claire scooted the chair back and over a couple of degrees, so that he could better see them both. "Look, I would've used the door, but that Daily Days what'shisname's been snooping around the place for the past half-hour and I didn't want to cause a scene or nothing and make trouble for Keith. C'mon, compared to the rest of the Family, don'tcha think I'm the least likely to get caught visiting? You can glare at me all you want," he added, when Nicola narrowed his eyes, "But how was I expected to sit on my thumbs while Edith was making her move?"

"Daily Days…! Edith…!" Nicola swore under his breath, while Tick eyed the door and counted to ten. "Don't tell me the Daily Days followed her here."

"Nah, Edith did just fine. The Daily Days acted on their own, I mean, we're talking about the finest information brokers in town. Of course they were gonna find out one way or the other… Still, I actually recognize that guy – he's a real piece of work, got Edith into trouble a while back. She'd know his name. Probably."

Edith would…? Tick frowned. _Daily Days_ and _Edith_ together rang a bell – ah. That whole mess with the Runoratas…Edith and the Daily Days had been caught up in that. He was sure he'd heard her mention the troublesome employee's name…

Utterly immune to Nicola's judging stare, Claire hefted the case he'd been carrying and opened it up in his lap. "Hey Tick, whaddaya think?"

Tick _gaped_. Ten pairs of scissors in two rows of five sat strapped to some velvet or faux approximation of it, gleaming and razor-sharp. His hands _ached_. "They're…reaalllly nice," he said. It was the understatement of the decade. The _century_. _Please, I want to hold them_.

"Aren't they, though? It's a present for when you're all fixed up…mm, actually, think of it more as an investment. Or guarantee, maybe. At the very least, you can think of them as replacements or upgrades, right?"

Tick opened his mouth to reply, but was relieved when Claire barreled on in his typical oblivious fashion. He wasn't quite sure what he would have said in response. "But look, bearing gifts isn't the only reason I'm stopping by," Claire said, brushing errant dust patches off his coat sleeves. "Honestly, most of the reason I'm here is 'cause I wanted to seeing how you were doing and shoot the breeze for an hour. That said, there's one item of business we'd better get out of the way first."

 _Hm? Business?_ If the statement baffled Tick, then it most certainly put Nicola on edge (if his gritted teeth had anything to say about it), but Claire's eyes were only for Tick. "Here's the thing," Claire said, his voice flat. "The Gandors still have your attackers."

Fragmented memories swarmed Tick uninvited, flashes of pain and heat intercut with his attacker's faces: Marv, weeping; Clay, loathing restrained but unmistakable; Barry, face all but purple with rage; and Duncan, sullenly morose.

 _What had Paulie's face looked like…_?

"Yesss," he replied, faintly. "I seeee."

Claire situated the case – still open – on the chair next to him, and clasped his hands together between his thighs. "So, funny story, I was at Coraggioso when Luck brought those four dips in, and you bet there was a huge row about what to do with the mooks. I had to fend off Berga from whaling in on 'em, Keith's orders, and Luck locked himself in the office for what, twenty, thirty minutes until he figured he was calm enough to handle things rationally."

Tick nodded and nodded as Claire talked, and wondered why the Gandors had left the men alive. That wasn't like them at all.

"It was a whole mess, I tell ya. I know you see them more than I do, these days, but as far as I'm concerned it's pretty rare to see the Family so out of sorts. Normally they'd just kill the rubes and be done with it, yeah? Maybe a slap on the wrist for your average offender, maybe a little torture session for the more serious offenders, but the worst of the worst get the guillotine if they blow their chances… None of this is their style at all. Well, once I'd gotten Berga in a full nelson and Luck emerged from the office, they talked things out man to man."

He scratched his scalp, sending dust scattering like he was Peter Pan. "So… Berga and Luck ended up asking me to do to them what you did to that Paul guy."

Tick nodded and nodded.

"It's not like I was gonna refuse them or anything… To be honest, when I heard what they did to _you_ , I was gunning to acquaint 'em with the nearest railroad. Well, I was briefed pretty thoroughly on what exactly you did, so let's hope I delivered to order and then some. They _seemed_ pretty agitated after our session, I can tell you that much. Ehhh… Sorry. They still are. Nothing's been done to them since. Heck, the most they've _been doing_ is recuperating from what Luck and Nicola did to them."

" _Nothing_?" Nicola demanded, vein pulsing at his temple. "I don't give a damn about my arm, you let me at them and I'll do _more_ than _some_ thing–"

Claire raised his hand, and Nicola scowled but fell silent. "Trust me, I wouldn't blame you. Keith's the one who enforced it – you know Keith, he always has a reason. He seems to think that Tick should have a say as to what happens to those guys."

Tick almost nodded, but caught himself as the meaning sunk in. "Whyyy me?" he asked. "IIII'm not the boss. I just do what I'm tooold." The blankets over his legs were too hot, too hot, but he couldn't remove them without kicking.

"'It's his right', is what Keith said," Claire quoted. He slipped one of the pairs of scissors out of their straps, hooking the holes over his fingers so that he could point the blade Tick's way. "And yeah, I get that. You're the one who was targeted, after all. Obviously they didn't _ask_ me to talk to you directly, but…what can I say? I'm a curious fella."

But Tick hadn't asked for _this_ at all, and he could only shake his head where he had once nodded. "It's theirrr decision, not mine."

"Yeah, well, they decided that _you_ should decide."

"What about Nicola?" Tick countered, only to look over at Nicola and find him looking the other way. "He's a capo, not me... And he was hurt toooo."

Nicola grimaced, gripping the cloth of his trousers with his free hand. "I can think of plenty of things I'd like to see _done_ to them," he said, not that that was much of a surprise. "But let's set aside hierarchy for moment. Ignore who's don and who isn't, who's capo and who's not – what do _you_ want done with them? I'm curious to hear the answer myself."

 _Ah…_ "I don't knoooww. I don't know." He let his head tip forward, tip back, not so much a nod as it was a stretching of the muscles. A vertebra clicked. "I don't have aannnything to give you."

Where Claire merely waited for more, Nicola curled his free hand into a fist. "When I think of what they did to you… Don't you hate them? Don't you want _revenge_?"

"Nooope," Tick replied, shifting back onto his pillow. "I told them that my scissors aren't uuuused for things like that. It's why I was gooood at what I did. Because I don't ever, ever feel mad, no matter what. I hurt someone cloooose to them, so why would I haaate them? I had it coming. Besiiides… I'm grateful."

Nicola flopped back onto his mattress, heedless of his bad arm, and let out an explosive sigh. "What I said about you being like Luck? Forget it."

"Say, whaddaya mean by grateful?"

At Claire's question, Nicola awkwardly propped himself up with his good arm to look their way. Tick smiled and smiled, shook his head, and said nothing.

Claire fixed him with an unblinking stare, and then folded his arms. "All right, fine. I'll ask another question. Let's say Keith and the others decided to kill the four of 'em. What wouldja think of something like that?"

Tick's eyes fluttered shut, in a clumsy attempt to picture the scenario. It was no good; Tock would've been able to do it. "I'd be a little saaaad," he said. That was all there _was_ to say, when it came down to it.

"All right," Claire repeated, tilting his chair back – he'd hooked his feet underneath the railing of Tick's bed – with a shrug of his shoulders. "Then it's settled. Nobody dies."

Perhaps Tick felt relieved. Perhaps he did feel something. Perhaps his smile broadened, just a tad. "Okaaay," he agreed. "Nobody dies."

The three of them spent the next hour in comfortable companionship, with Claire providing entertainment in the way of juggling the scissors (his chair all the while tilted back) until Who came in with lunch and balked at the sight.

"That's dangerous," he warned, doling out the applesauce into bowls. "I don't care how good you are, you don't do that around the patients."

Claire rolled his eyes. "You realize I _am_ that good," he said, though he slipped the scissors back into the straps anyway. "I may as well be off, then, things to do and all–"

"Henry!" Tick hadn't meant to cause an outburst, but oh, well – all three men looked his way with their eyebrows raised. "The Daily Days whatshisname," he amended. "I juuust remembered. That's his naaame."

Claire leaped to his feet, leaving the case on the other chair. "Henry, huh? Yeah, that's it. That's the one. You know what… I think I'm gonna teach _Henry_ a lesson after all. See how much he knows, get him outta your hair. 'Scuse me, fellas."

He nudged his way past Who ("Hey, you look familiar…") and over to the still-open hole (which Who had evidently not realized was there), where he bounced on the balls of his feet once, twice, and _jumped_ so that he caught the edge of the hole with both hands. Without a second's pause he hurled himself upward, disappearing with an acrobat's grace into the ceiling in a single arc. The ceiling tile replaced itself, leaving silence in its wake.

(Punctuated by a single, small sneeze.)

Who cast his eyes heavenward. "Dammit… Why me?"

A scream sounded out off from some other part of the clinic, and Nicola smirked while Tick flinched. Closing his eyes, Who mumbled, "…Why _him_?"

"You get used to it," Nicola snickered, helping himself to one of the bowls. "Apologies on his behalf and the Gandors' behalf. Hopefully that's the last of them. That had _better_ be the last of them."

Tick eyed the ceiling tile, and couldn't decide if he agreed or disagreed with the sentiment. Whatever happened would happen, and that was that.

* * *

The clock on the wall struck seven when Death paid Tick and Nicola a visit.

He had swung open the door and glided in as if he owned the place, clad in a long black cloak and deep hood which shrouded his face from view. Nicola was already reaching for his knife when the specter paused by the foot of his bed, though he did not turn to look at him; he merely continued on his way to _Tick's_ bed, stopping by the foot to face Tick head-on.

Tick watched him curiously, though he could just make out Nicola moving from the corner of his eye, knife gripped in his non-dominant hand – he shifted his stance, preparing to strike –

Death raised his hands to both sides of the hood, and tugged it over and back wavy brown hair.

"Hi, amigo!" Maria exclaimed, with a sunny smile. "So this is where you've been all locked up? That's so sad, it's too boring here. Where's all the color?"

Nicola fell back against the wall and slid down it, pressing his palm and the handle of the knife to his forehead while his bad arm remained awkwardly stiff in its sling. "You have three seconds to explain yourself."

"Huh? What's there to explain, amigo?" Maria asked, putting her hands on her hips. "Luck was going on and on about how we're not supposed to visit, but when I saw Vino slip out I couldn't let him show me up! Not when it comes to my amigos. So I made sure to find a disguise and came over. Hey, out of the entire Family who could come visit you, aren't I the most subtle?"

" _No_."

Maria puffed out her cheeks in a pout, but Nicola retorted with a baring of teeth. "I'm not amused," he growled, and indeed – the laughter from that morning was nowhere to be found. "You can say your piece, but you'd better leave quick, understand?"

"…I just wanted to visit, amigo. There's nothing wrong with that," was Maria's subdued reply. She glanced back to one of the chairs by the back wall, and then took a seat at the end of Tick's bed – uncharacteristically careful in avoiding jostling Tick in any way. "I don't like that Vino stealing my amigo's job. It's not right! Those scissors are Tick's scissors, not his. And why is he doing Tick's job anyway, if Tick is supposed to be a huge secret?"

It was a good question, or so Tick thought. Nicola looked resolutely unimpressed. "I'm sure Claire's been feeding his 'clients' some story about what Tick's really up to. Probably there've been so many offenders recently that we needed _two_ torturers to keep up with them all… Look, like it or not, the Family needs someone to fill in for Tick while he's indisposed."

Tick's stomach dropped.

"Temporarily indisposed, I mean," Nicola said, raising his head from where he was still slumped against the wall. "Only until he's recovered."

Maria glanced between the two of them, eyebrows raising with incredulous aplomb. "Hey! Why are you talking like that? Tick'll be ready to _slash_ anytime, amigo."

Tick coughed deliberately, the heave of his chest drawing rather conspicuous attention to the hands strapped upon them.

When the others looked over – well, Nicola looked over, and then he had to bite down on his free hand to keep himself from laughing – Maria huffed and tapped the side of her cheek with her index finger. "Ooh, I just _knew_ you'd be like this, amigo. You only believe in what you can see, so I bet you've been lying here all this time believing in what your hands look like! Right?!"

Ah. _Ah_ , that was true. Yes, that was true.

"You've been lying there and lying there and thinking, 'Goooosh! As much as Nico goes on and on about how my hands will recover, I just can't believe in a future that hasn't happened yet. Oh well, I'll just keep _lying_ by agreeeing with him!' That's what you've been doing, isn't it, amigo? I'll bet Kochite on it!"

Nicola paled ever so slightly, and Tick flinched. "I wasn't...trying to liiie," he mumbled, locking his gaze onto the far wall, "I just... Can't do it. I caaan't believe for sure that I'll be able to work again."

"That's so silly, amigo," Maria said, shaking and shaking her head. "That's no good at all! Your eyes may not have been hurt but you've been blind all this time."

"Whaaat...do you meeann?"

She leaped to her feet much like Claire had done, enormous sleeves billowing as she pointed a finger his way. "It's like you told me back then, amigo! I can't believe in those hands at _all_!"

Tick shrank back into his pillow, pressing his bad arm against the fabric. "Maria," he said, softly, "What do you mean?"

"You couldn't believe in Murásamia no matter how much I wanted you to," she explained, somehow patient and impatient all at once. Every other word had her hair bobbing. "But you said you could try believing in _me._ Well! I may not sit in on your work sessions, but _boy_ have I seen you _slash_! I've seen you slash and slash with your scissors, amigo, and skill of that level is skill to stay. Phooey to your hands. It won't matter what state they're in – you'll be able to slash with your scissors whatever happens."

It was... pure Maria-style logic, enthusiasm distilled and then taken to a certain illogical extreme. But it had been inspired by _Tick's_ logic too; logic devised in a sincere attempt to motivate Maria and cheer her up, granted, but his own logic nevertheless. He couldn't exactly put faith in a statement as thoughtless as his had been, no, but he could gratefully appreciate it. He _wanted_ to believe in it, badly. And that in itself was — important.

That Maria had put her faith in his skill, and not in the uncertain prospect of recovery was – important.

He ought to thank her, like he had with Edith. But... "I'll...keeep that in mind," he replied, his hands rising and falling with every quick _thump_ of his heart. "We'll juuust have to see, won't we."

Maria finally prepared to take her leave after half an hour of conversation, at least ten cumulative minutes of which involved Nicola reminding her of the door's existence and Luck's guaranteed wrath at her expense.

"Well, I can tell when I'm not wanted, amigo," she scoffed, drawing her hood up and over her head. "See if I visit you the next time you're all shot up! And I don't care how mad Luck gets, coming all this way was worth it. You'd better heal up real quick and come back soon, amigos! All the neighborhood kids keep asking for Tick at the jazz hall, and that mechanic burst in one day asking why he hadn't seen Nico out on the streets. It was a huge _ruckus_ , amigo! I fought him for a little while since I felt sorry for him, but there's only so much I can do when I'm not the one he wants to fight."

She had to consciously stop and take a deep breath, hand already on the doorknob. Then, she whirled around to face the two of them once more. "But most of all, we miss you, amigos! The neighborhood kids, the dancers, the associates, the bosses, the whole Family misses you. And I–" There was another deep breath, but it was quieter than the first. With the hood drawn, Tick could not see her expression. Still, he wondered if it wasn't one he had seen before. "–I miss you the most, out of all of them. It's too lonely without you, amigos. So hurry up already! We're all waiting!"

Maria spun around to face the door once more, hand shooting out of her cloak out as if to yank the door off its hinges.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob, and gave a cautious, careful tug. Soundlessly, Death slipped into the outside corridor and out of sight.

Once Maria was gone, Nicola sighed and made to stand – only, he lurched in the process, his injured arm making unfortunate contact with the wall behind him. His face whitened, and he sagged _just so_ (dragging his arm against the wall with the movement), but made no other indication that he was in pain. "Feet fell asleep," he muttered, as he hobbled back over to his bed. By the time he sank back down onto the mattress, he looked almost ill.

Somehow, Tick had put the dark shadows under Nicola's eyes out of mind over the course of the day. ...Despite the fact that they were in plain sight. Aside from the rare hisses and grunts of pain (ignoring the obvious sling), Nicola normally never gave any signs that he was hurting. Such was his stoic prowess that Tick occasionally had the feeling all those involuntary noises had been voluntary on Nicola's part all along – but never mind all that. Nicola was probably like Claire, Tick thought. The sort of person who's so good at keeping up a strong front that one overlooks their front and center weaknesses without realizing.

Had Nicola been unable to sleep... Or deliberately _not sleeping_? Had he been keeping guard on Tick's behalf? Was he deliberately showing signs of weakness? That was more likely than anything…wasn't it?

"Tick..." Nicola hesitated, fumbled with the sling until it was suitably readjusted, and tried again. "What Maria said about you lying–"

"Ah, Mr. Nicola, I'm sooorry about that," Tick said, interrupting without meaning to. "I wasn't—" This time it was Nicola who interrupted him – technically – but Tick immediately backed down when he saw Nicola's raised hand.

"–It wasn't a surprise." Nicola waited, but when Tick didn't dare to interrupt him again, continued on. "That is... It's not like I couldn't tell something was up. Hell, I'd have been surprised if there wasn't. Even someone as happy-go-lucky as you isn't going to breeze through all of this unscathed, right?"

Tick's thigh was itching again. His bandages were itching, his arm was sore, his ribs ached, and his hands, his wretched hands— The renewed urge to _snipsnipsnip_ surged under his skin with tenfold fire, he _needed_ to move, to fidget, to be anything other than a motionless doll right this second. "I guesss so, Mr. Nicola," he replied, furrowing his brow. "You're prooobably right. I'm not very smart, but I bet you've thought about it looots."

With his sleeve, Nicola wiped away the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and leaned forward. "Doesn't matter if you've thought about it or not — even if you don't realize it, your body does. I've been rooming with you for three days now, and you've been fretting constantly ever since you got here. All tension and strained smiles. Have you even realized just how often you've been glancing over at the door when no one's there? Seventeen times. I counted."

Ah, Tick was just too slow to keep up with someone as smart as Nicola. "I've beeen...looking at the door that much? You counted...?"

Nicola gave him a thin, self-deprecating smile. "What can I say? I had time to kill."

"But...why? Why was I...?" Even as Tick voiced the question, he had the niggling suspicion that he could come up with a few reasons if he actually put some thought into it.

He didn't want to think at all. Selfishly, childishly, he trailed off in expectation that Nicola would explain his behavior _to_ him, just like Tock used to do.

When Nicola finally accepted that Tick had no plans on finishing his sentence, he shrugged lopsidedly. "Why else? I'm no mindreader, mind. I'm just making assumptions on what I see and know like any jerk...but every time it seemed to me you were waiting for someone in particular. You started looking more often after Edith showed up this morning, too..."

He paused so that he could awkwardly reach for the glass of water on his nightstand – 'awkwardly' in that he'd sat a little too far from it and had to overextend himself in the process. After draining its contents in one go and setting the glass on the floor, he nodded over to Tick's own water on his own nightstand. "Are you...?"

Tick shook his head, despite the sudden dryness of his throat.

"Right. ...Look, is anything I'm saying making sense to you?"

Cornered, it was all Tick could do to nod.

Grimly satisfied, Nicola nodded back. "Then stop playing dumb and making me do the talking for you. Who've you been waiting for? I have a damn good guess as to who it could be, but _hey_ , I'm just a spectator here. Well?"

The potential answer hit Tick like a freight train, no _thinking_ necessary. His mind spun like it had when he'd first been doped up, and he shivered like he had back on those cobblestones.

"Well?" Nicola prompted. Reluctantly, Tick met his eyes. Gave a tiny shake of his head. Nicola's gaze softened. "...Tick," he said, but Tick's mouth only tightened further. If Nicola was disappointed, he didn't make a show of it. "It's Luck, isn't it?"

If Tick's throat had been merely dry before, it was now a veritable desert. _Luck._ Nicola's answer made too much sense, and at the same time – not enough. What sort of answer was he expecting in response? What should Tick say? What should he be _feeling_?

If Luck was the answer, than why was it that Tick could only think of _Tock_?

His voice may have been distant, but the words – ones he had kept secret even from Maria – poured forth in a steady, easy stream. "I love my brother, but I couldn't even cry when we parted ways, after all that time. I think... I must be reaally empty after all. Tears, faith... There's nooothing inside of me. Maybe if I had faith like Maria and everyone elssse, I wouldn't be searching all the time. It's not that I think you're wrooong, but... I..."

Having already long since looked away from Nicola, his gaze refocused on his dormant hands. "I think you're riiight, but I'm probably tooo dumb to figure out why. Sorry."

There was another long pause. Nights at the clinic were the worst – they were too quiet to be reassuring. The _tick-tock_ of the clock on the opposite wall was a solace, but a small one compared to the tens upon tens of clocks that had lulled _Tick-and-Tock_ to sleep every night in their youths. Silences had once been easy to tear open, scissors slashing sound through them like songbirds.

 _Silences_ made the thudding of his heart and reediness of his breaths all too loud.

"First of all," Nicola drawled, and oh if Tick didn't much like the clipped upset in his tone, "All that talk of emptiness? Forget it. I don't want to hear that from you ever again. Second, that goes for _dumb_ too. If there's one thing that little speech of yours just proved, you're _neither_ of those things. No, I'm not getting into it," he said, when Tick frowned, "You're worried about your place in the Family, that much is clear. Whatever else is going on? Like hell you're too dumb to understand it. You just...ah...need to…face it."

The hairs on Tick's arms stood on end, and he looked up sharpish to find dark blood trickling down Nicola's sling. Whether it had been the wall, the shrug, the overreach, or all three acts combined – Nicola's stitches must have torn.

Nicola's gaze drifted downward to settle on the wound, and he pressed his palm to his eyes. "Shit."

No matter what Tick said, Nicola refused to ring the handbell on his nightstand ("To be used in emergencies," Fred had said, and though Tick thought this qualified Nicola evidently disagreed) in favor of waiting for Who, since it was not long until his evening round was meant to finish. When Who _did_ arrive, he thoroughly chewed Nicola out for his obstinacy and – after much haggling – forcefully succeeded in having Nicola take something for the pain.

Whatever that 'something' was – alcohol? ether? – Tick wasn't certain, but it at least certainly succeeded in making Nicola drowsy. He voiced his vehement opposition to this development all throughout Who's subsequent check-in with Tick, carried on when Who assisted Tick to the washroom, and was still at it when Tick limped back to bed with Who as support.

"...I _caan't_ ," he slurred, as Who resettled Tick back into bed. "Damn yyyou... I _told_ you no medicine...!"

The slurring had gotten worse, but his anger — though dampened, though sabotaged — was still unmistakably _raw_ , and the incongruity was unnerving. No, to see Nicola _like_ _this_ was unnerving.

Nicola Cassetti, the capo extraordinaire who would smile and laugh through gunshot wounds if he had to – rendered vulnerable by a bottle. To see him _like this_ was surely the last thing he wanted. Tick turned his head away, but Nicola's protests continued unfettered and unavoidable.

"All I nnneeded, was, _stitches_ ," he gasped, "S'just a flesh wound, goddddammit! No meds. No meds. What. Did you give me?"

Tick's blanket was drawn up and over his legs. Who, no doubt, but Tick wasn't looking at _him_ either. "You Mafia types always like acting up," retorted Who, close by Tick's ear, "I should know. But pain is pain, and you deserve relief from it no matter what kind of pain it is. More importantly, sleep is sleep, and you're not gonna recover any faster if you don't get some of it."

"I _do_!" Perhaps Nicola had intended it as a snarl, but it came out as a strangled groan. "But not – like this. I can't, I ha, have to be ready. M'his guard. Hey. _Hey_."

"Just for tonight," Who soothed. He must have left Tick's bedside, for as he spoke the lights flickered off. "It's for your own good."

"..." It fell to Nicola's labored breathing to puncture the silence this time, and for once, Tick would have preferred the silence. "...His bedcurtain. _Draw_ _it_."

Footsteps. The light blue of Tick's bedcurtain encased his right bedside in a single swipe, cutting himself off from Nicola and Who entirely.

It took a long, unhappy minute for Nicola's breathing to slow, and a second for it to even out. Only then did Who's footsteps make themselves heard, receding into the edges of Tick's world, and vanishing with the open and close of the door.

Tick tried to stay awake, for Nicola's sake – but his own medication and fatigue from the day's events proved insurmountable. When sleep came for him, the fight he put up was valiant — and compared to Nicola's, short-lived.

* * *

The clock struck three in the morning, when Tick woke.

He wasn't sure _why_ , at first. Perhaps it was due to how parched he was. That seemed likely enough. Perhaps he'd jerked awake from some dream, not that he could remember having one. It might have been latent worry for Nicola, or a sign of a restless mind.

Still bleary with sleep, Tick couldn't help but look toward the door (not that he'd be able to see it) – and froze at the sight of Luck Gandor, asleep in a chair at the foot of his bed.

Luck had managed to stay upright, despite the chair's lack of armrests, but he'd slumped forward rather than backward. His head hung so low that his chin practically touched his chest – and his hands lay limp between his knees.

 _How long had Luck been here?_ For some time, probably, given that he was asleep (unless he was just that exhausted...) – long enough, perhaps, that he wasn't what had woken Tick. Tick could not care _less_ what had woken him, now.

He'd been antsy over Luck for three days — and here Luck was.

Now what?

 _You just need to face it_ , Nicola had told him. Right now, Tick had the literal version of that covered. Technically. All he had to do was call Luck's name...

"Mr. Luck?"

Well, a _whisper_ was a far cry from a _call_ , and Tick really shouldn't have been as relieved as he was when it failed to rouse Luck. Not that he'd _tried_ to whisper, truly. Such was the peril of his parched plight.

 _Relieved..._ Wasn't that abnormal? Wasn't –

Tick grimaced. _No more questions_. Not after what Nicola had said. It was easy to flit from one idea to the other, to float through vague feelings and concerns without focusing on any of them (especially on medication), but not when the root of those vague concerns was front and center.

Looking back… He _had_ been glancing at the door a lot, just like Nicola claimed. Tick screwed his eyes shut, recalling half-formed feelings and thoughts in an attempt to shape them – Nicola wasn't wrong. He'd been idly waiting for Luck, but that wasn't the long and short of it. _"I didn't think we'd get any visitors,"_ he'd said, not simply because of the Gandors' secrecy, but because he didn't think _he personally_ would be visited at all, even in regular circumstances. Not by Luck. When he'd looked to the doors… No, Tick couldn't say he was _hoping_ Luck would come. He'd both hoped Luck _would_ and _wouldn't_ , vaguely anticipating something he didn't really think would come, and vaguely anxious when it didn't.

He opened his eyes, and found Luck unchanged save for a few additional stress lines on his face. Not a restful rest, by any means.

Luck's unexpected presence left Tick little leeway for vagueness – but at the same time, practically required speculation. The Gandors had forbidden visitors, so for a Gandor to visit Tick in person…

Had Luck not fallen asleep, Tick might have wondered if the Family or clinic had found themselves in a drastic emergency.

As Luck _had_ fallen asleep, Tick figured there could only be one other likely explanation for his visit: He'd come to a decision regarding Tick's fate. ...Even as the answer whispered at the back of Tick's mind, no matter how much it tempted him and taunted him, there was another part of him whispering back. That even if the Gandors _had_ made up their minds, they'd not have risked coming here in person... Or, what if Luck hadn't meant for Tick or Nicola to see him all? Maybe he just wanted to check in on them under the cover of night but accidentally fell asleep.

"…" Tick shook his head. "Mr. _Luck_."

A tremor went through Luck's body as he blinked awake, straightening out of the slouch into something more respectable. His vulpine eyes pierced the night's veil and pinned Tick in place.

"Mr. Tick," Luck answered, his voice muted. He folded his arms, and the two of them sized each other up for a few quiet moments. Perhaps realizing that Tick had no intention of breaking the silence, Luck made the first move. "How goes your convalescence?"

 _Convalescence_ – That was one of Tock's words. "Mmm… It's too early to know about my haaands yet, Mr. Luck. Doctor Fred isn't heeeere right now, but he'd know better than me."

"I didn't ask about your hands." Luck's expression hadn't changed. The reply was almost _too_ levelly cool even by his standards, like a heartbeat turned pendulum, and for the first time in Tick's life – he couldn't say he found the pendulum beat reassuring.

"Ummm. It's…?" Tick fumbled for the next word. _Going as expected_ , his brother had muttered once, hands deep inside a clock. "Goooing as expected, Mr. Luck. My ribs hurt less." _Why are you here?_ "I'm walking better eeevery day." _What am I supposed to do?_ "My arm's okay. Nicola's is wooorse."

Luck's gaze flicked to Nicola's bed, but was on Tick again before Tick could attempt to surreptitiously clear his throat. "I see."

Awfully succinct, wasn't he? Like he was waiting for Tick to instigate. Tick didn't _want_ to instigate.

But then again, he'd lost his right to have a choice long, long ago. "I… Diiidn't think we were supposed to have visitors," he said. _Pawn to e4_ , whispered his brother. _Your move_.

He had cast the first stone, and resigned weariness ghosted across Luck's expression like ripples in a still pond. "That's correct. You're not. Especially not from me – after all, out of the whole Family, my brothers and I are the most… _blatant_ specimens on hand. Yes, you're absolutely right. I shouldn't be here." Luck narrowed his eyes, irked. "Then again, neither should have Maria."

Tick winced for his friend, bit the inside of his cheek. "How did you…?"

"Let's put it this way: Without you around, Maria has no censor, no filter. It is positively fascinating to observe how many secrets she is capable of disclosing at any given time. Believe you me, I plan to discuss her natural propensity for leaks with her in short order. Perhaps she would like to put it on her resume."

Unfettered sympathy for what Maria would endure upon Luck's return swelled in Tick's heart, and he silently wished her _good luck_ before offering a hesitant, "Oh."

Luck closed his eyes and heaved a great sigh, as if the word had suffered him some great injustice that had yet to be righted. "Yes. _Oh_. I often think that we simply couldn't have taken her on without you to keep her ah…more talkative tendencies in check. And the _slashing_ tendencies. In time, perhaps even the _amigo_ tendencies."

 _Ah, ah._ Tick's heart spasmed. "Hm...but others could do that toooo, couldn't they? Like Mr. Keith… She respects Mr. Keith." Luck quirked an eyebrow, and Tick amended, "Others could do that too."

"Not at all," Luck said. "You're irreplaceable."

"But–"

"Irreplaceable," Luck repeated patiently, shifting in his seat. With the movement came a whiff of Coraggioso gin and cigarette smoke, coppery blood and pomade, the heady scent of _home_ , and Tick's ribs flared up – _inhaled too deep!_ – but he hardly cared, the ache for the jazz hall far more potent than any old bruising. He'd been nostalgic before, a touch wistful here and there – but never like _this_. He was empty, after all.

Even as he had the thought, the parched state of his throat remained a steady, spiteful undercurrent to everything else. "Mr. Vino," he rasped, "Heee can. He _is_."

Luck unfolded his arms so that he could massage his temples with his index finger and thumb, a motion that Tick envied like all the others. "I don't know what you've been told, or who's been doing the telling–" he paused, as if to give Tick the opportunity to divulge exactly who was who (in this case, not Who), but when Tick divulged nothing, continued on, "–but all Clai-Felix is doing is filling in for you. Nothing more, nothing less. He is more than eager to step aside once you return."

Even with everything that had happened, even with all the conversations Tick had engaged in – the same old questions and statements burned on the tip of his tongue. After all, _Luck_ had not yet heard them. And Tick had not yet heard _his_ answers.

"But Mr. Luck," Tick whispered, "My _hands_."

Luck pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, something grim tugging at their corners. Then, "We'll cross that bridge when it comes to it."

"I…" It was not desperation that had crept into Tick's voice – not an emotion as strong as that. Nervousness, then, the same as that which he'd felt when he was sold. When the safety of his family had rested on his young shoulders, his willowy, clever hands. "You said aaalll that nice stuff about me and Maria but without my hands, what use could I haaave for the Family? Right now… Right now I…"

He looked down. At his hands, at his lap. He'd memorized every inch of patchwork the blanket draped over his legs had to offer him by now, so his gaze did not wander.

" _Use_?" Luck echoed, voice stiff. " _Use_ –?"

Tick quailed. He didn't even check to see if Luck meant to say something more or if he meant to say nothing more, he hastily followed with, "IIII've made up for Dad's debt, so…so. It's been real nice of you to let me stay in Coraggioso, but if I can't wooork…"

He had no stepfather to return home to – if Tock had had any idea of where Dad was now, he'd not said. (Tick hoped Dad was alive and safe, but hoping was all he could do). Tock… Well, from what he'd seen of Tock's new life, it seemed to him that Tock's job had him moving around a lot. What sort of older brother would he be if he burdened his little brother like that?

(And speaking of Tock – it really was a shame that the Gandors had ended up with the older of the Jefferson brothers. Were Tock in Tick's place, he'd still be useful to the Gandors in all sorts of ways. Between the two of them, _he_ was the one with brains).

 _If I can't work… Then it would be wrong of me to still call Coraggioso 'home'._

Now, he raised his head. Luck's skin had turned an interesting shade of pale green, and he trembled where he sat. "Tick," he said, "You have worked off the clockmaker's debt, yes – and more than repaid it. The boon you have been to the Family over the years is beyond reproach, in reputation and results alike. You will _always_ have a place in this Family. For the loyalty and service you have shown us over the years, you will always have our gratitude."

 _Loyalty…!_

Tick shivered. The cut on his lip, though mostly healed, tingled reproachfully; he ran his tongue over the ridge, remembered the shape of _Luck, Berga, Nicola_ and how a minute or two more might have seen the names hissing between his teeth.

"They asked me…for naaames," he admitted. "Who ordered Mr. Paul tortured. Who broke up the craps games." They hadn't asked about the craps games, but they might as well have. Clay's eyes had done a lot of the asking.

Luck's mouth twisted in hard, naked disdain. "Well, they certainly know _now_."

Goosebumps pricked at Tick's skin, and he leaned forward without realizing. "Mr. Luck, I–" his voice cracked – out of dryness, nothing more – and he had to forcefully swallow before continuing, "–I didn't tell them."

The same concern that had flashed across Luck's face in the alley flashed across his face now – and stayed put. He stood to retrieve the glass of water on Luck's nightstand, and drew the bedcurtain back so that he could hold it level with Tick's mouth. "Here."

With docile obedience, Tick drank. It mattered little that the water was lukewarm – it was a relief regardless, and he was certainly grateful for Luck's generosity. When Tick released the straw and sank back against his pillows, he'd left the glass half-empty.

"It's still half-full," Luck remarked, still holding the glass in front of him, but Tick shook his head. He'd rather leave some for later. Luck went ahead and set the glass back on the table, and retook his seat.

It took him a few moments before he spoke again, and when he did – it was as if he were breaking a whole new silence than the one before. "I never once thought you did," he said. Not urgent, not conciliatory – simply matter-of-fact. "I apologize if that sounded like an accusation. Even so – even so, even if you had, no one would have blamed you."

 _Mr. Luck really is kind._ Tick was fortunate that Luck was such a kind person, more kind than he could ever hope to be. He'd benefitted from Luck's kindness for so long, so…he guessed he owed it to him to confess. "I think… I thiiink I nearly told them. Almost. I could feel the…" No, choose other words. "…If you hadn't found me when you diiid, I don't knooow what would've happened." And that was the _problem_. That he'd been saved, that it had all come to an end because of others – that was the rub.

He didn't think he'd ever startled someone into speechlessness before, but that he could all of a sudden hear the radiator humming away in the background was notable all the same. Luck's speechlessness only lasted for a few seconds anyway; when he spoke next, his voice was hard.

"There is betrayal, and there is betrayal. Edith _betrayed_ , but she had her reasons – and she confessed her betrayal, in the end. If I were more of the Mafioso my foster brother thinks I am not, perhaps I ought to say, 'There are reasons, and there are reasons, but none of them are good ones.' Or, 'No betrayal is excusable'. 'You give traitors so many chances, real soft-like', he said to me once, but even then…" His voice quieted, but didn't soften much. "Well, you remember what became of Jorgi."

 _Oh, yes_ , Tick thought, with a slow nod of his head. _How sad._

After a moment, Luck crossed his legs and folded his hands upon his knee. "These are the facts of the matter as I understand them. You were assaulted, and asked to name names. You did not, despite everything. Do you disagree?"

Despite everything, Tick did not. Facts were facts.

"Well, then," Luck said, "I fail to see how these facts imply any form of _disloyalty_. Look here," and his voice rose sharply, retaliating before Tick could even attempt a protest, "No matter what you say, 'feeling like you _could have_ ' betrayed us is entirely different than 'you _betrayed us_ ', and it's as I said before. No one would blame you for naming names."

His mouth curled again, this time into a dry smirk that wasn't directed at Tick at all. "Anyone with half a brain wouldn't have had to _ask_ who ordered their 'cousin Paulie' tortured, or who broke up their little craps party. Why, I expect they already knew."

Huh? They did? "Then whyyy would they ask?" Tick said, curiosity overriding qualms.

Luck's eyes thinned, fox-like to snake-like in an instant. "Because they are cruel," he replied. "Because they are not like you."

This time _Tick_ was the one rendered speechless, and the radiator and wall clock were quick to fill the silence with a steady hum and _tick-tick-tick_ respectively. Luck's gaze flitted to the clock at the latter sound, and his expression clouded. "I've been here too long," he muttered, and stood so that he could retrieve the coat he'd draped over the back of his chair. As he shrugged it on, he said, "Whatever you may think of yourself or of us, you will have a place among us no matter the outcome of your stay here. You have my word."

His hands drifted to the coat's buttons, hovering over the topmost ones. "Unlike your stepfather, I do not abandon my _Family_."

Tick had nothing to say in response, so he settled for watching Luck make quick work of buttoning his coat and pulling on his gloves. Once his hands were gloved, he picked up the chair by the top rung of its back and moved to place it against the back wall – but here his eyes failed him in the gloom, and one of the chair legs struck the foot of Tick's bed in the process.

A hollow _rap_ of wood-on-wood rang out on cue, and a groggy voice rang out from Nicola's bed in response. "...Boss?"

Luck and Tick looked as one over to Nicola's bed, at the shadowed figure struggling to prop himself up on the bed. He failed for the most part, though he managed to at least roll a little to the left so that he was better facing them. Not for the first time, Tick marveled at Nicolas' sheer tenacity. He'd assumed that the sleeping _whatsit_ that Who had given Nicola would see him knocked out for the entire night – and yet here he was, awake in spite of it.

"Boss," Nicola repeated, his voice ghastly and aghast all at once, "I didn't, didn't hear you– I didn't–"

Luck did not move his head, but his eyes slid over to Tick in a clear, private question. _Sleep medicine_ , Tick mouthed, with exaggerated care. He received the slightest of nods in answer, and Luck's attention returned to his capo. "That _was_ the point," he said, with practiced ease, "If I couldn't do this much, how could I ever hope to look my brothers in the eye and stand beside them? Don't mind me – I'm leaving, as it happens."

"Wh, why, why are you...here?"

"I happened to be in the neighborhood," was Luck's dry response, but he stopped as if to reconsider. "Tick and I had business that couldn't wait," he amended, and hesitated again. "Two people in the Family's care were hurt," he said, his delivery slow and quiet. "I came to pay my respects."

If Tick squinted _just so_ , he could make out the shame and drug-addled bewilderment in Nicola's expression melting into firmer wariness. " _How_ ," Nicola demanded, "are you getting out? How did you get _in_?"

Honest amusement tugged at Luck's lips, and he withdrew two _somethings_ from his coat pockets. "Claire dropped one of his disguises off at the office," he said, as he donned a fake beard. As he did the same with a pair of rectangular glasses, he added, "He was confident I'd find a use for it, someway or another."

Tick hadn't realized Luck had brought a hat, but a hat he had had, and once he'd fitted it firmly over his hair he was at the door with swift efficiency.

 _Wait,_ Tick thought, _Over so soon?_

It seemed so, for Luck had already put his hand on the doorknob as Maria had done – and then paused as Maria had done, tipping his hat in their direction. "Goodnight, gentlemen," he murmured. "Dream well."

* * *

Tick woke a whole hour before Nicola did, which surprised him only in that he thought the gap would be _greater_. Somehow he kept underestimating Nicola even while overestimating him, and he bowed his head in deference when Nicola reacquainted himself with the waking world. He propped himself up on his free forearm to squint in Tick's direction. "Your bedcurtain," he said. "He didn't draw it."

It took a second for Tick to work out what Nicola meant, but once he did, he hastened to explain. "Mr. Who diiid when you asked, but Mr. Luck moved it when he viiisited last night. Sorry."

Nicola's eyes widened. "Luck." He rolled onto his back, staring into nothingness. "So it wasn't a dream."

"Nope," Tick affirmed, and though he was the one doing the affirming – his heart felt a little lighter, for some reason. "He came."

If his answer made his heart a little lighter, than it definitely didn't do the same for Nicola's; his cheeks flushed, and he ran his hand through his bedhair and down his face until it came to rest upon his chest. "I'm going to kill that nurse," he muttered, dully. "I shouldn't have slept through him coming in, I–"

Three knocks sounded off at the door, cutting Nicola off. Where he'd reddened before, he now paled. "What, that time already?"

Looking incredibly perturbed, he rose and shuffled his way over to Tick's bed so that he could draw the bedcurtains shut by Tick's right side. Two more knocks rang out, and he planted his feet in a wide stance rather than return to his own bed. "Come in."

The same old miserable rusty squawk of the door's hinges called out in answer, and Nicola jerked the bedcurtain back no less than ten seconds after he'd first drawn it. In entered a decidedly expected Who and a decidedly unexpected Doctor Fred, the former of whom was carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and glasses and the latter of whom carried his familiar medical satchel.

"Good morning," Who said, blithely ignoring Nicola's condemning glare. "I didn't expect to see you up so soon, but hey – guess that means you've got a front row seat for the show."

Nicola grumbled something along the lines of "Yeah, I bet," under his breath while Who set the tray down on the table, and then, out loud, asked, "Show?"

Over by the foot of Tick's bed, Fred looked up from his satchel at him and Tick both. With his face covered, there was no way to tell what he was thinking. "We are overdue, you see," he said. "To change the dressing on his hands."

Electricity crackled up Tick's spine and washed down his skin in goosebump rivulets, radio static fizzing and popping in either ear and nearly drowning out Who's next words in the process. "The Doc's right, y'know. He didn't even plan on restraining your hands in the beginning, not even chestside, but you just couldn't keep your hands still, couldja? Maybe if you promise not to fiddle with the splints this time we won't have to…"

But that too faded into static, for Tick was already busy envisioning _movement_ – the tantalizing prospect of being able to move his _arms_ again, to stretch and feel the air stretch with him.

He was brought back to Earth when Doctor Fred cleared his throat, having already taken a seat next to Tick's bed. Nicola shrugged off Who's attempts to look at his wound, so Who circled around to the other side of Tick's bed ("Don't think I won't get to you later") and stood at attention.

When Fred nodded, Who said, "All right, we'll do the straps first" and reached out to undo the straps around Tick's hands and arms. As each layer unwrapped the pressure on Tick's skin lightened, and lightened, and lightened until he was positively light-headed.

"Deep breaths," Fred said, and Tick didn't often think about his _breathing_ but he inhaled – _iiiiin, out_ – and felt the better for it. Privately he thought that Nicola would feel the better for it too, considering the way he was hovering by the foot of the bed.

They accidentally made eye contact, and Nicola busied himself with offering profound commentary on the length of the straps Who now laid on an unoccupied part of the mattress: "S'overkill, isn't it?"

Who opened his mouth, took another look at Nicola's expression, and snapped his mouth shut again. The comment was left to hang in limbo, unwanted and unanswered.

It was Fred who broke the silence. "You can move your arms, if you like. Get some feeling into them."

Tick looked at him, startled, and looked at the discarded straps on the bed.

 _Oh._

He extended his arms forward – slow and steady, mindful of his right arm, still sore and recently wounded – outward, inward, and then _up_ , his muscles groaning relief at the activity.

At the sight of his hands, he stopped.

After two, three days of having them covered by heavy straps, they felt small, light, and utterly exposed. The bandages wrapped around his swollen fingers and palms, the splints - they weighed like nothing compared to those straps, were different in touch and smell, and in that moment his hands were all but alien to him.

Another deep breath, and his hands were _his_ again.

"I will now remove the splints and bandages," Fred announced, and Tick met Fred's gaze. It was as steadfast as it had been _then_ , and Tick closed his eyes to it and took another breath. He recalled how Fred had undone his own bandages, exposing his scars in response to Tick's exposed worry, how he had tried and tried to believe in a future that remained as uncertain as it had been that first day. A future where his hands recovered fully, a future that Edith and the rest had seemed so sure would come to pass.

It was as uncertain a future as it had always been, but Luck had promised Tick a different one altogether.

Over the course of his life, Tick had been promised all sorts of futures: A future as clockmaker; a future as a simpleton; a future as an older brother; a future where his hands recovered; and more besides. Some of them, he'd wanted. Some of them, he'd wanted badly. Some of them he'd hoped would never, ever happen.

For the first time in Tick's life, he had found a future he could believe in.

"All riiight," he said, giving Doctor Fred a nod. "I'm ready."

He _was_ , and his heart sang with faith.

* * *

 **If the OP delivers Part 2 nine or ten months later after Part 1, does the fandom make a sound?**

 **Well... I certainly didn't expect Part 2 to take this long. Nor did I expect Part 2 to be this long, for that matter. Certainly not more than five times the length of Part 1. But it turns out that recoveries and aftermaths are always longer than their causes, so fiction reflects life, I suppose.**

 **And on that note... I'm not the sort of writer who believes I need to relate to my protagonists or every single one of my characters. I'm definitely not the sort of reader who can only care about protagonists they can relate to either, for that matter. So it was to my great surprise while writing this that I saw a good deal of myself in [my portrayal of/interpretation of] Tick - the emptiness, the struggle with belief (to an extent), and perhaps more besides.**

 **With that in mind, I do hope I wrote him and the rest decently in-character (may or may not have been highly self-indulgent with Nicola, though. Speaking of, he definitely would've heard Luck come in had he not been drugged). I've never written Maria or Edith before, nor Fred – and speaking of those characters, I do intend to tag them soon; I just figured it might be fun to leave them as a surprise for the first day, assuming people check out this fic within that timespan.**

 **In any case, to those of you who commented on Part 1 all those months ago and were so encouraging, thank you so much. I reread those comments a lot in the time since, and they gave me a lot of motivation to push through Part 2 and see it done. I hope Part 2 doesn't underwhelm.**


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